Tower of Cards
by Lassroyale
Summary: When Dean is murdered before his eyes, Castiel will do anything to get him back...even journey through several lifetimes for the chance to save his soul.


**Title:** Tower of Cards  
**Author:** Lassroyale  
**Recipient: ****elaeazeph**  
**Rating:** R  
**Warning:** Encompasses all of Season 4, death!fic & amnesia!fic & hypothermia!fic with a twist, decidedly AU  
**Disclaimer:** The pretty boys do not belong to me...I just like to put them in compromising positions.  
**Parings/Characters:** Dean/Castiel, Trickster, Tessa  
**Notes/Prompt(s):** All three were incorporated.  
**1.** The death fic: Dean dies, while Castiel tries everything to save him.  
**2.** The 'amnesia' fic: Dean with severe concussion, or amnesia, some type of brain damage.  
**3.** The hypothermia fic: Dean with hypothermia--the more clothes that _stay on_, the better.  
**Word Count: 6335**  
**Beta Reader:** sailorhathor  
**Summary:** When Dean is murdered before his eyes, Castiel will do anything to get him back...even journey through several lifetimes for the chance to save his soul.

**A/N: **This was my submission for the deancastiel Renegade Angel's fic exchange. Incorporates all of my recipients prompts, though focuses mainly on the death!fic prompt and amnesia!prompt, albeit with a different imagining.

**Tower of Cards**

Snow crunched beneath Castiel's shoes with the type of sound that one feels in their teeth. It was half-frozen, slowly melting under the distant eye of the sun that had been steadily growing stronger as the day progressed. Every few steps or so his foot would sink a little deeper into the cold wetness and he would be treated to the shocking sensation of snow lodged between his skin and his socks. It would have been viciously cold if he were human, but of course he wasn't.

It was merely a hindrance, though it was one that the angel didn't mind. He thought it more curious than anything else that humans chose to populate arctic areas such as this wasteland of ice and snow, when their bodies were so ill-equipped to do so. Even with his otherworldly essence keeping his vessel warm, he could feel the raw sensation of windburned cheeks and a sunburned nose, reminding him how fragile the body he wore really was. Still Castiel trudged on, his eyes reflecting the glittering snow, the brightness as scalding as it was beautiful.

Up ahead he could see an aberration to the boreal scenery of deciduous trees, with their branches creaking and sagging, heavy with fresh snowfall; a lamp post. It was stark black against the surrounding white, and it shed a welcoming yellow light onto the bench next to it. Castiel half expected that if he were to walk further beyond the lamp post and the bench that he would somehow emerge out of some ancient wardrobe, left forgotten in somebody's attic.

He wondered for second where the thought came from before a memory was drudged up from the back of his mind: _Dean sitting in a window seat, one leg curled under him as he killed some time waiting for Sam to get back. He was reading a book, something about a lion, a witch, and a wardrobe, and at one point he looked over at Castiel and asked, "Hey Cas, ever seen a talking lion?"_ The memory did odd things to the angel; it made his heart lurch, though good sense and knowledge of human phsyiology told him that wasn't possible.

It made him _hurt_.

When the memory cleared from his eyes and loosened its grip on his heart, Castiel looked and saw that the bench now had an occupant. Seated upon it, in shorts and a bowling shirt, was the Trickster. He was licking his fingers as he worked his way through a whole cherry pie, complete with whipped topping and a dollop of ice cream.

The sight made the angel's borrowed heart falter and his chest tighten. He knew that the Trickster had chosen to present himself in such a fashion, on purpose; cherry pie had been the first type of pie that Dean had made him try. To this day, it was his favorite.

Castiel didn't know why the Trickster liked to meet him in these desolate places, but he had long since stopped caring. It had merely become their routine, and it was one they had rehearsed for what seemed like a lifetime. Last time he had met him in the ruins of Pompeii, beneath the looming shadow of Mt. Vesuvius. That time the pagan god had been eating a fruit tart and drinking something called a 'mocha frappuccino'.

Castiel never cared; he tolerated the Trickster's eccentricities because he needed him. He needed the power the deity wielded. He needed it to get Dean back. And to do that Castiel would suffer anything.

***

The Trickster liked to look different every time they met and Castiel had gotten so used to it, that it surprised him whenever the deity wore his favored countenance instead of another. Still, he preferred the human forms to the other guises he sometimes wore; namely those of animals. He had come to Castiel in the form of coyote, a raven, a fox, and even a monkey. The strangest had been when he had settled into the angel's hair as a small spider with acid-yellow spots. His voice had been tinny as he hung from a silk thread and had whispered into his ear.

Today he looked relaxed as a Japanese man with dark hair and dark eyes. He looked remarkably comfortable in his shorts and short-sleeved shirt, even though the temperature was at best a few degrees below zero. He gave the angel a small wave of greeting before shoving the last bit of pie into his mouth, which he savored with notable relish.

"Hey-o sport," said the Trickster, rising and offering a hand, sticky with cherry filling. Castiel declined the gesture but nodded in greeting. The deity appeared apathetic to the lack of etiquette and grinned, his teeth looking a little too-sharp as his lips curled back. "So you're ready to do this yet again? Haven't given up yet, eh?" He made a little clicking noise with his tongue as if he were ticking off a list in his head. "Let's see, how many times will this make it?" he asked.

"Forty," replied Castiel promptly. It was a significant number; in the Bible the number forty signified completion and testing. It was also the number of years that Dean had spent in Hell, before Castiel had rescued him. That fact was not lost on the Trickster, who was above all else a cunning god.

"And 39 times you've tried to save Dean and couldn't. It's time to accept it - Dean is staying dead."

Castiel shook his head; he couldn't accept that. He wouldn't accept that. "No," he said firmly, his voice low and serious against the moan of the wind, "I will save him as I did before." This the angel believed with every thread of his Grace; he had, to or his hope would have faltered long ago.

The Trickster shrugged as if it were all the same to him. "Sure, if you say so. I just stick around for this because it's the most fun I've had in years, watching you punish yourself over and over again. You'd think an _angel_ would have better sense than that. Now," he mused, affecting a positively thoughtful expression, "tell me again why you can't use your own angelic influence to pluck his soul back on your own?" The pagan god grinned in such a way that indicated he knew the reason perfectly well.

Nonetheless, Castiel acquiesced; it was all part of the game, after all. "When my brothers killed Dean Winchester," he stated as he had stated countless times before, "they hid his soul from me. I cannot locate him and thus need another to do it for me. I come to you because you have known the Winchesters; I come to you because you're the only one who can help me get him back."

The Trickster seemed satisfied. He waved a hand dismissively. "Oh I know, I just like hearing you say it. Makes me feel special. Besides," he clapped his hands together and his whole demeanor changed, becoming somber, "any chance I have to throw a wrench into the grand plan, I'll take." When he smiled this time he looked decidedly inhuman, and Castiel was forcibly reminded that the Trickster was a dangerous being, through and through. He snorted, turning his back on the angel as he began to trudge through the snow away from the bench. "Ineffability my ass. Every single being in this universe is accountable for their actions - whether they acknowledge it or not. "So," he said, pivoting abruptly, "a sacrifice."

Castiel disliked this part, but deities, especially the pagan deities, thrived on ritual. There was no greater show of worship than a sacrifice of blood; to them, this was the sweetest ambrosia. He watched from a short distance away as the Trickster whistled shrilly and beckoned to something standing in the treeline. A moment later the angel saw what the god pointed to - a wolf, large in size, with a coat as white as the snow around them.

The animal was either unafraid or enscorcelled; either way, it came to a halt next the Trickster and sat down. It's eyes were watchful, but it remained still and quiet when the deity stroked a hand through its thick pelt. When the Trickster looked back at Castiel, the angel saw that his eyes were not just dark, but devoid of any light entirely.

Wordlessly the angel walked forward and reached his hand behind him, like he was going to pull a sword from its sheath. In fact, he did.

The sword was plain, all things considered, no nonsense and straightforward. It was made for one thing alone: _slaying_, and it made no excuses about that fact. The hilt was unadorned, wrapped in brown leather that had become permanently stained red from the blood of Castiel's enemies. The crossguard was a simple affair, a bar of thick metal, crusted with old blood. The blade itself was long, nearly the length of the angel's body, and said only one thing: _I kill._

Not washing his sword was not Castiel's choice. It was his father's. He wanted his children to remember that no matter how much time passed, one could never completely wash the blood of their enemies from their hands. He wanted them to remember each life that was taken. He wanted them to honor the memories of the dead.

So Castiel did, and each time he wrapped his fingers around the hilt, it felt as if the blood of his enemies washed over his hands anew.

Castiel hefted the sword like it weighed no more than a feather, resting the flat of the blade upon his shoulder as he approached the Trickster and the wolf. He bent to touch the animal upon its beautiful head, and then, with a murmured prayer, he swung the sword downward and cut clean through its neck. The wolf's head fell to the ground, it body following a moment later. The limbs twitched as its life spilled onto the snow in a splash of bright red.

"Perfect," said the Trickster in a sort of hushed, reverent voice; it reminded the angel of someone who was eying something particularly tasty and salivating. The pagan god knelt and spread his fingers in the blood. When he rose, Castiel lowered his head so the other could anoint his brow and nose in the crimson fluid. It was hot against his skin, and if it hadn't been blood he might have thought it a pleasant contrast to the cold air. He opened his eyes in time to see the Trickster grin at him with sharp little teeth. The deity snapped his fingers, the sound echoing in the unnatural silence that had fallen.

Then, with a great heave and shake, like a toppling tower of cards, the world crashed down around him.

***

Castiel was standing on the side of a road in some nameless stretch of Arizona, nothing but electrical poles and hot asphalt stretching for miles around. The sun beat down with relentless fists, and though it made the angel feel uncomfortable and hot, he did not sweat. He peered down the road to the left, seeing mountains in the distance. To the right he saw more mountains, though he felt a sort of tug in that direction.

Without thinking twice, Castiel began walking.

***

There was a body on the side of the road. The body was male, wore a pair of old sneakers and jeans that were torn and dirty, as if they had carried their wearer through a war or three. The rags around his torso might have been a shirt at one point, but it looked to be in the same condition as his pants.

As Castiel approached the man stirred and let out a low moan.

"Goddamn," muttered a cracked male voice, "where the hell am I?" The man pushed himself up on one hand and turned groggily. At the sound of the angel's approaching footsteps, he looked up, revealing a pair of confused green eyes. Castiel's heart seemed to pound faster, matching the quickening of his breath as he took in the man's disheveled state; dark hair, smooth skin, full lips. "Dude, you know where I am?" asked the man.

"Yes," replied Castiel a little too earnestly, "you are in Arizona, though I'm not sure exactly where."

The man nodded a little and wiped his hands on his grimy pants. "Hot as a bitch out here," he commented, squinting at the desert landscape of scrub brushes and saguaros. "You gotta car or any water?"

The angel shook his head and the man cursed. "What's your name?" he questioned in a serious voice. "Why are you out here?"

The man shifted from foot to foot, though whether it was because the ground was hot or because he was uncomfortable at the question, Castiel wasn't sure. Nevertheless, he answered. "My name's Dean Winchester," he said hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his tattered pants, "and I'm not sure how I got here." Something shifted within Dean's gaze and the angel knew he was lying. "Who are you?" Dean questioned, suddenly suspicious. "What's with the trench coat? It's like a fuckin' oven out here." He paused, "Did Sammy send ya?"

Before he could help it, the angel tilted his head to one side and regarded Dean with grave perplexity. "My name is Castiel," he began, and was cut off when the other sucked in a sharp breath.

"Castiel? That's...a weird name." His brow creased and he glanced around with renewed wariness. "You remind me of someone I used to know. There's something strange about you too. It's your eyes." He peered closely at the angel, his gaze intense as he searched his face. "Have we met before?"

"Yes," said Castiel and with such quiet certainty, that Dean looked utterly convinced before shoving the notion roughly to one side. Instead, a hard look entered his eyes, his jaw tight as he pulled himself up a little straighter.

"No, that's impossible." He shook his head as if to clear it. "My friend died." The anger that curled around his words was so full of bitterness, that Castiel found himself reaching out to him before he stopped. Dean - _this_ Dean - had no clue who he was. Not in this reality.

"What happened to your friend?" he asked gently. The other winced at the softness of his tone, recoiling from the kindness as if it were physically repugnant.

"Huntin' accident," he replied gruffly, as he turned away and began to walk down the side of the road. He paused and looked back at Castiel with an odd expression in his eyes. "Funny thing is when he was killed, my memories of him vanished...it's like they were plucked right from my goddamn head. I know he was important to me, _very_ important, but I can't even remember his name. Ain't that a bitch?"

Castiel nodded and fell into stride beside Dean. Every single fiber of his Grace cried out to the other man, but each time he thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the other's eyes - _true_ recognition - it slid away. It would have been easy to place two fingers upon the elder Winchester's forehead and force the memories back. It would have been easy to grip Dean by the arms and raise him from this place as he had done before.

But it wouldn't have brought him back; not permanently. Dean's reality was of his own making and nothing would save him from it unless it was himself.

So Castiel, filled with a feeling of discontent that he was slowly learning to bear, walked along in silence.

At length Dean spoke again and the angel noted that his voice was still rough, as if he didn't use it much anymore. "So you know, where'd you come from?" he asked, always scanning the horizon. He moved as smoothly as Castiel remembered, however, his body powerful beneath the rags he wore.

"I fell from the sky," said Castiel simply. It wasn't quite a lie; rather a half-truth. The angel had been getting good at telling half-truth's lately.

Dean snorted, his eyes flashing briefly over him before flicking away again. "Right, okay. You possessed by a demon or something? 'Cause I don't need a Bible to kick some demon ass." His eyes were hard as jade. "You sure don't seem like it though."

Castiel had to stop, his facade cracking just the tiniest bit. "Demons?" he asked in a perfectly even voice, though there was hope beneath his tongue. Every other incarnation of Dean he had met had not been hunters. _This_ Dean was the first in all of his forty attempts.

"Yeah, demons," said Dean with a note of incredulity. "Where have you been livin', Cas?" He made an expansive gesture, missing the subtle twitch of the other man's lips when he said his shortened name. "It's goddamn hell on earth with my brother Sammy steerin' us toward damnation, fast. I got the fuck outta dodge as quickly as I could; hence the outfit." He gestured to the rags he wore. "Kinda hard to go to the mall when you've got hellhounds on your ass."

Castiel stood rooted in place, disbelieving. This was so close to reality that it was almost surreal.

Dean shook his head sadly and let out a short bark of humorless laughter. "You sorry sonofabitch," he muttered. "Well," he said, "welcome to the goddamn Apocalypse."

***

A few miles down the road, Dean said, "I wish you had a goddamn car."

"I don't know how to drive," replied Castiel in somberly, glancing sidelong at the human as they trudged along in the hot sun. Sweat collected in Dean's hairline and rolled down his face in glistening paths. Castiel tried not to notice.

"Really?" That peaked Dean's interest a bit. His brow furrowed as if that was one of the strangest things he had heard, demons and Apocalyptic events, aside. "Well when I get a car I'll teach you."

Castiel smiled. "I would like that very much, Dean."

"Yeah well don't think it's 'cause I like you or anything. You don't look like much of a fighter, that's all. If you're going to keep your trench-coat wearing ass alive for any amount of time out here, you're gonna have to have _some_ skills." He shrugged offhandedly, but the angel caught the sentiment in his voice. He felt a twist in his chest, but said nothing.

***

At length, the pair arrived at a small, dingy looking diner set in the middle of nowhere. The metal roof looked hot enough to burn the feet off any bird that dared land upon it - not that there were any birds around, of course, except for a few vultures that circled high in the sky.

The windows of the diner were sealed tightly shut, and drawn just inside the door was a Devil's Trap. The occupants of the diner looked up warily as the pair entered, but paid them no heed after they passed the symbol on the ground, unimpeded. Even Dean's appearance did not so much as draw a curious eye.

Castiel slid into a booth with the elder Winchester, and observed the heaviness in the air. It was saturated with a sort of living tension that slithered down his spine and settled onto his shoulders. At length, a waitress with dark hair and a grave, pretty face sauntered up to the table. She looked pointedly at the angel as if she didn't like the thought of him being there, and then turned to Dean.

"My name is Tessa," she said in a voice that trickled dryly over gravestones, "and I'll be your waitress. What would you like?" If Dean noticed the strain between the two, he didn't comment on it.

"Water and a number 4, coffee - black," he answered.

Tessa nodded and turned away without asking Castiel what he wanted. As with the Trickster, the angel had long stopped caring; it was all part of the game. He knew the Reaper thought it wrong of him to keep trying to steal back Dean Winchester's soul by such unnatural means. He knew too, that she couldn't take his soul as long as the angel kept vying for it. In that regard, the two were merely chess masters in a high stakes game, each waiting for the other to break down and falter.

After all, what do a Reaper and an Angel have in common except time?

***

One thing about Dean that never seemed to change was his appetite. The man demolished his food with boggling speed, devouring everything in sight like it was the last meal he would ever have. Little did he know that he had actually eaten his last meal a very long time ago, but Castiel wasn't about to enlighten him to that fact. He really couldn't, anyway; there were rules to this game that he had to follow or risk losing Dean's soul for good.

Finally, Dean pushed aside his plate and leaned back in the booth, looking momentarily sated and a little lazy. Still, Castiel could feel his energy as it thrummed beneath his skin, restless and taut, like his muscles were wound too tight. He looked around as if he was unsure of what he wanted to do next.

"Would you like some pie?" asked the angel expectantly. Dean brightened a little bit, a small smile breaking across his face. Castiel thought he might be able to live on the pureness of that smile alone. He didn't wait for Dean to answer but signaled Tessa with a raised hand. The Reaper sauntered over and stared at Castiel wordlessly.

"A slice of cherry pie for Dean," he said in a deliberate and even voice. "Extra whip."

Tessa stared for a moment longer with an expression of deep dislike in her dark eyes. "Of course, _angel_," she said curtly, "anything for Dean." She turned on her heel and walked away, though if one really looked, they might see that she seemed to _glide_.

"I think she likes you," said Dean with a sly curve of his lips. "She's kinda sassy but a little too grave for my tastes. But...there's _something_ about her." He looked over to where Tessa had gone, his eyes trailing her movements as she busied herself behind the counter.

Castiel ignored the Reaper when she returned and set down the plate with a clatter. "I think," he mused softly as she sashayed away, "that you will find she likes you far better."

"Can't deny that," said Dean with a smile full of cherry pie, "I'm one good-lookin' sonofabitch."

***

Castiel tried his best not to watch the way Dean's lips closed over his fork as he ate the pie with more care than his previous food, but he was having a hard time of it. Each time his upper lip would curl over the fork, then slide slowly down with the slight scrap of teeth, he would feel a longing well up within him that was almost stronger than his will not to kiss him and ruin everything.

_'Everything in time,'_ said the Trickster the first time Castiel had gone to him. _'The only way to get Dean back is to let him come to you.'_ When the angel had asked why, he had said, _'You couldn't rescue Dean Winchester for forty years the first time, kiddo, what makes you think that it's going to be any easier now?'_

Waiting with Dean in plain sight, was far worse than having to descend into the Pit itself to rescue him. He was waiting for something that may never come.

Still, he would wait forever if need be.

"So what now?" he asked, looking to Dean with a slight tilt of his chin.

"Look Cas," said Dean in a resolute tone, "there's something you gotta know about me if you plan on sticking with me. I hunt things, okay? Bad things. And with the world goin' to shit, I'm one of the few left who do. It's dangerous, but I do it because there are too many people out there who can't do it for themselves." He paused, though not for effect. He seemed to be gathering himself as if he was having difficulty putting the words together. "I'm not gonna ask you about where you came from or your past - I don't care. It's just...if you can handle the danger, I wouldn't mind having a partner again. Been awhile..."

Castiel looked steadily at the hunter with an expression close to muted wonderment. No matter what life he was living, Dean was always a protector; he always stood up for those who couldn't do it themselves. "I have nowhere else to be," he said truthfully. _'And I wouldn't want to be anywhere else,'_ he added silently.

That seemed satisfactory to Dean, who nodded once and then grinned. "First things first: we need to get _both_ of us some new clothes. That trench coat is just ugly."

/center***/center

It was a bit terrifying how quickly Castiel was able to fall into a routine with Dean; it felt so familiar that even the hunter often commented on it. As it had once been, Dean and the angel worked as a deadly team. There were differences of course; there were bound to be.

The biggest was the fact that Dean fought like a man with nothing left to lose. He fought tooth and nail with no regard for injury to himself. He was deadlier than the Dean Castiel had known and loved, and whenever he returned from a hunt he was bloodied and torn.

After a particularly bad fight, however, for the first time the angel lost his temper.

"You should take more care," he said harshly, his voice fairly shaking with the force of his anger. It was all he could do to prevent the lights from flickering too wildly as he felt something within him begin to unfold. "You get yourself hurt every time, Dean."

The elder Winchester just spat out a bloodied tooth into the bowl Castiel held up for him, tonguing the empty space in his mouth tenderly. He spat out another mouthful of blood and tried to rise, which was hard to do with cracked ribs. "I get the job done, Cas, that's all that matters." He winced as the angel began to extract shards of glass that were embedded into his thigh, none-too-gently. "What's it matter to you, anyway? As long as those demon sons of bitches get iced, I could care less what happens to me."

At that Castiel had threw down the bowl, blood, broken glass, and Dean's tooth spilling onto the cheap motel carpet with a muted clang. His voice when he spoke, was low, meaningful, and furious. "_You_ matter to me, Dean Winchester. Out of everything in this universe, _you_ matter to me the most."

An expression of unabashed bewilderment crossed Dean's bruised face, before it was replaced with a look of contempt that seemed strangely forced. It stretched across his battered features quickly, though it couldn't hide the glint of self-loathing that surfaced in his green eyes. "Sammy used to say that." he said coldly. "And Sammy's a fuckin' liar. Don't you say somethin' like that unless you mean it, Cas. Don't _lie_."

Castiel, who had taken both of Dean's shoulders in his hands, released him slowly. He gave into the impulse that rose within him and trailed his fingers down the sides of the hunter's arms, his skin so warm beneath his fingertips. Dean was still beneath his touch, but a muscle in his jaw twitched and his lids looked heavy over his eyes. "You don't know how true that statement really is, Dean Winchester. But I wish you would."

After that Dean had refused to talk for the rest of the night, but allowed Castiel to continue tending to his injuries. He would stare at him when he thought the angel wasn't looking, his expression a cross of confusion and uncertainty. What Castiel saw, however, was the hint of fondness that would now and then flit through Dean's eyes.

Though he never apologized for it, the hunter took a bit more care in his fights, and Castiel found that he only had to wrap his ribs once a month rather than four.

***

There were other things that happened to Dean, accidents that made him realize how tenuous the whole situation was; accidents that made him realize that time was against him. The worst was when Dean fell through the ice on a hunt in Alaska.

Castiel could feel it when it happened, his skin going numb as if he were there, trapped below the surface instead of the hunter. A chill swept through him, branching throughout his veins like quicksilver. He could feel the shout build in his throat before it burst from him in a violent torrent, "DEAN!"

There were a number of ways the angel could have saved him. What surprised him the most, was how easily he chose the _human_ method. He dove through the hole that Dean's body had created as he crashed through the ice, and felt the frigid waters close over him.

The water had teeth and it bit deeply into his vessel's skin, making his limbs sluggish and stiff. Castiel had to remember to ignore the painful sensation and focus on the here and the now. He groped with outstretched arms in the darkness of the lake. Nearby he thought he saw a flash of dark, grim eyes and grit his teeth; Tessa would not have him. Not this time.

The seconds stretched on and finally, when he extended the tips of his fingers even further, he brushed Dean's arm. It was a matter of a moment for Castiel to grip Dean tight and rise from the lake in a supernova burst that melted the ice and boiled the water of the lake.

By the time he got the hunter back to the cabin they had commandeered, Dean was shivering, icy to the touch, and delirious. Castiel held him flush to his body, back to chest, and whispered into his ear. "Stay with me, Dean, please. I will get you warm - we'll get through this."

Dean's teeth clacked together loudly in the silence of the room. His eyes were open and unfocused, and suddenly a word slipped from his blue lips. "Tessa."

Castiel glanced up sharply, his mouth forming a thin, grim line as he watched the Reaper kneeling before Dean warily. Her gaze was dark as pitch and she rested a slender hand upon the hunter's cheek, her palm colder than the lake he had fallen into. "Dean," she breathed in her ancient voice, soft as shadow, "do you know who I am?"

Dean flinched violently under her caress and his eyes rolled back into his head. He convulsed, one hand shooting up to wrap an icy grip around the back of the angel's neck. "C-C-C-assss," he stuttered, his lips so cold he could barely form the words, "t-too c-c-cold."

"You should let me take him," said Tessa in an emotionless voice. Her eyes never left Dean's face as he began to seize. "It is my right."

"No," replied Castiel, holding Dean tighter to his chest, his wet head tucked beneath his chin. Then the angel did the only thing he could think to do: he opened his wings and wrapped them both in the warmth and protective light of his Grace.

Tessa, with a sigh of disgust, withdrew.

***

Later, when his body didn't feel so cold and he was warm enough to sit up and allow Castiel to spoon feed him a bit of piping hot chicken broth, Dean told him of a dream he had.

"It's weird," he said, swaddled in multiple layers of clothing, blankets, and a towel that Castiel had demanded he wrap around his wet head, "but my dream felt more like deja vu."

Castiel carefully spooned another mouthful of soup into Dean's mouth. "That's interesting," he replied cautiously, afraid to hope that maybe the other was finally remembering.

"I dreamed I was wrapped in feathers and chained to a star. The heat burned right through me but it...well...it was nice. And then," he paused and looked away, the hard line of his neck reflecting his tension, "then I dreamed of _you_. And you were that star and you had those feathers." Dean coughed and but it sounded more embarrassed than anything. "You were an angel."

Castiel said nothing but when he looked into Dean's eyes he didn't see any spark of remembrance. He hid his despair well; he was getting good at that.

***

A few weeks later, Lucifer found them, drawn to the energy that Castiel had exuded when he pulled Dean from the lake. He ambushed them while Dean was still recovering, subduing them with greater ease than the angel would have thought possible.

Lucifer looked different in this reality. Castiel supposed he would have to; after all, Dean had been killed before he had seen what he really looked like. Unsurprisingly, _this_ Lucifer was Sam Winchester.

"Oh Dean, Dean, Dean," said Sam, as he sliced a little more flesh from his brother's shank and devoured it greedily, "what have you gotten yourself mixed up with?" He looked at Castiel with the utmost disdain, and the air rolled and shivered around him as if his presence was too great to be fully contained within a mere vessel. "You ran away from me to...to _this_?" Lucifer dug his hand deep into the flesh of the angel's belly where he was stretched out on a rack and twisted, long, sharp nail tearing skin and muscle.

When the angel screamed it was long, wet, and terrible. On the next rack, Dean screamed in rage, which only made Lucifier dig deeper. Castiel's wail of pain suddenly began to change, growing in strength and pitch until he was screaming with his true voice.

Glass shattered in the windows, bursting outwards, broken by the force of his voice. The lights overhead exploded, and Dean's ears bled.

At that moment, Dean Winchester remembered who he was...and who Castiel was. He remembered the first time he had heard the angel's voice. He remembered crawling out of his own grave. He recalled the first time he had tasted the angel, his lips bloody and raw after Castiel had found him half-dead in the aftermath of Lucifer's resurrection. He remembered the pain and fury on Castiel's face when his angelic kin had gutted him on a rack just like the one he was on.

"CAS!" he yelled and his voice was full of fury, recognition, and _love_. "Sammy, let him go!"

"Oh bother," said Lucifer, abandoning the angel for a moment and instead turned his attention to Dean. Castiel struggled upwards against his restraints, nearly dislocating his own shoulder in the process. His heartbeat was erratic, and something raced through his bloodstream, lending him the strength he needed; hope. Dean _remembered_. The angel burst from his restraints, light seeping from his fingertips, just as Lucifer, grinning easily from behind Sam's face, ripped out Dean's throat.

As the world collapsed around him in a fall of red drops, Castiel bellowed with immeasurable rage.

*** Epilogue***

Castiel was kneeling in the snow, his pants soaked through and wet. Nearby, sitting cross-legged on the ground, was the Trickster. The pagan god had ingested the carcass of the wolf, fur and all, except for the head, which he was toying with idly.

When he looked up, his endless black eyes were curious.

"Almost got him that time," he said.

The angel merely nodded and rose swiftly, snow falling in clumps from clothing. He bent and lifted his discarded sword, still slick with wolf's blood.

"Ready to give up yet?"

"No," replied Castiel firmly. The smell of Dean's blood-slicked skin was still fresh in his nostrils, and he thought he could taste his pain in the back of his throat. "I will never."

The Trickster shrugged and hopped to his feet. It was all the same to him. "Alright then," he said, putting on a pair of sunglasses, "see you in Giza." With a snap of his fingers, the deity was gone.

Castiel stood for a long moment, studying the spray of red soaked into the whiteness of the snow. It held no answers. After several minutes he disappeared too, ready to begin his journey anew.

(The End.)


End file.
